Last Resort
by The Last Letter
Summary: Dean is fighting with the world and fighting with himself. At fourteen, he's drifting further and further away from reality and Sam is the only thing he has left to hold onto.
1. Chapter 1

_Cut my life into pieces_

Dean Winchester is the man of three lives.

His first life lasted only four years. He likes to think of this as his should-have-been life. He should have had a life where his father was a mechanic, his mother made him lunch and cooed over his every accomplishment, and he thought his little brother was smelly but, secretly, fascinating. He should have been able to grow up at a normal rate. He should have been carefree, whining about having to pick up his crayons, and staying in the same school district until he graduated. But because this was the should-have-been life, none of it happened. Besides, the should-have-been life had been dead for a decade now.

Dean currently lives two of his three lives.

The first one he likes to call the "normal life". In quotations, of course, because it's not the true life and it never will be. The "normal life" is a nice escape though. It is as close to the should-have-been life Dean will ever experience and he likes to cling to it a little bit, knowing that it will only last another few years. In the "normal life" Dean is your typical fourteen year old kid. He complains about going to school every morning, sneaks coffee (though he doesn't know why he sneaks it – John isn't going to care about his eldest drinking coffee), rarely does his homework, and makes eyes at the girls in school, who are usually making eyes at him in return. This is the "normal life" because it's what most fourteen year old boys do. But for most fourteen year old boys, there are no quotation marks, because their "normal life" isn't a lie.

Then there is the soldier life. This is the life that, after the age of four, has become his truth. For the past decade, he has been raised as Daddy's little soldier; Daddy's second hand. He knows how to handle weapons properly. He knows how to shoot. He knows how to stab. He knows how to kill. He knows how to get rid of everything that goes bump in the night – everything that, once upon a time, had only been faceless fears lurking in his childhood closet. Dean knows better now. He knows the truth of the world. So he did everything his father told him. He trained until he felt his body about to give out on him and then he pushed himself even harder. He knew he had to be able to do everything; he had to know everything; he had to be the best damned soldier his father had ever seen.

_This is my last resort, suffocation, no breathing_

_Don't give a fuck if I cut my arms bleeding_

Dean taps his pocket again for his gun, loaded and ready with three silver bullets. His father has another gun with other silver bullets in his own pocket. Dean is hoping that his father will find the werewolf first and that he'll be the one who will kill it. While Dean knows the killing is justified – it is, after all, a creature that hurts and kills innocent people – he also knows the werewolf will be in human form and he doesn't know if he can handle shooting a man through the heart.

He stays where he was stationed: just outside the building were John has tracked the werewolf. His father has gone inside, intending to kill the werewolf before it even has a chance to pick up on the fact that there are hunters after it. Dean is simply a safety precaution, for two reasons. First – the age old rule – unless it can be otherwise avoided, one should never hunt alone. Second, in case the werewolf gets Dad and comes bolting out the door, it's Dean's responsibility to kill it.

Dean shivers. It's late, hours after midnight, and it's freezing. He wants to be back in the hotel room they're renting, asleep next to Sammy (who hopefully won't wake up and realize his family isn't there) where it's warm. He especially doesn't want to get up for school in the morning but knows that John will make him go.

He lets out a breath, watching it crystallize in the air, and shifts onto his other foot. He hopes Dad will come out soon; tell him the job is done, and then they'll both pack into the Impala and head home.

Dean perks as he hears footsteps. But they're not Dad's footsteps. For one, they're much too light – Dad's footsteps are heavy – and for two, the person is running. Dean's heart clenches. The werewolf must've escaped Dad and now it's coming out the front door. Dean pulls his gun, braces himself, and waits for the creature to appear.

A perfectly normal looking human man bursts out the front door. Dean gasps in spite of himself. It's going to be a lot harder than he thought to pull the trigger. Before the boy can blink, the werewolf has turned at his noise. The man's deep eyes narrow and he lunges. Dean manages to get off a shot but it goes into the man's shoulder, rather than into his heart. Dean winces at his failure because he knows now that the man is going to attack.

Dean readies himself for another shot but there's no chance for him to fire. The man is on top of him, sending them both flying to the ground. Dean's head smashes sharply against the pavement and his vision goes black for a terrifying moment. One of the werewolf's arms is against his throat, impairing his breathing while its other arm is scratching along Dean's flesh. He can feel it scraping the undersides of his arms, against his sides, trying to get to his heart.

Dean doesn't even think he can handle breathing right now, but he knows that he has to muster up some kind of strength. He thinks of the fact that John is, undoubtedly, on his way out the front door to rescue him and he only has to hold the werewolf off himself for a few more minutes. He forces himself to take a breath through the pressure the man is keeping on his throat. He'd let go of the gun during his fall to the ground, but he still has his own body and John has made sure that both of his boys are very effective weapons on their own.

Dean brings his fist up weakly to the man's face. It's not enough of a punch to injure the man, but it takes the werewolf by surprise. He rocks back, away from Dean's throat. Dean gasps for breath, his vision returning as air travels to his lungs again. The werewolf is back to clawing at Dean's tender torso. Blood is seeping through his ripped clothing and the werewolf is starting to lick his lips, transfixed by the fluids.

Dean knows the claws of a werewolf won't do anything to him but he also knows that, above all else, he must _not_ get bitten. So when the werewolf leans in again, face heading toward Dean's wounds, Dean brings his arm back as much as he can manage and lands a punch squarely to the man's jaw. The man whimpers this time. Dean pushes him away, trying to take advantage of the fact that the small wound has left the man temporarily vulnerable.

The werewolf isn't letting him go that easily. He snarls, bringing a hand back to Dean's neck. Dean lets out a noise as the man's hand tightens harshly against his windpipe.

Then there's a _bang_.

The man slumps forward, his blood mixing with Dean's own. Dean rolls the body off of himself, trying to sit up but finding he's too lightheaded to do so. He lies on the ground and pants. John comes, hovering over his eldest.

"Here," he says gruffly, removing his coat. "Wrap yourself in that. I'll burn the body and then we'll get you back to the hotel room and patch you up."

Dean accepts the jacket, nodding. His father hauls the body off to take care of it, and Dean slumps back against the freezing ground. He knows he should stand up, go and help Dad, but he can't manage it. Winchesters aren't supposed to be emotional and they aren't supposed to feel pain, but right now Dean is doing both. He was lying here, bleeding from a werewolf attack and his father's job still takes precedence – Dean has often felt abandoned by his father, particularly on dark nights when it's just him and Sammy, but he's never felt it quite so acutely before.

Dean groans, waiting for the pain to pass.

_This is my last resort,_

_Cut my life into pieces_

_I've reached my last resort, suffocation, no breathing_

"How are you feeling?" John asks as he stations his oldest son on the bathroom counter of their hotel room.

"Bad," Dean manages, pale with hurt. They're both trying to keep their voices down, knowing that Sam is sleeping in the next room. Neither of them want the ten-year-old boy to wake up and see the damage done to his brother.

"That's to be expected," John sighs and cracks open the first aid kit. He quickly and efficiently cleans Dean's wounds and begins to bandage them. "They're not deep enough to need stitches," he begins but then inspects a deep wound on Dean's chest. "I stand corrected. Grit your teeth, bud."

Dean closes his eyes and pretends he can't feel the needle repeatedly piercing his skin. He wants to cry out but knows that he can't. Soldiers don't show weakness and pain is weakness. He keeps his eyes closed even after John leaves the chest wound alone. He feels his father prodding his body, bandaging wounds and even, twice more, stitching them up.

"Are we almost done?" Dean wonders after he feels like he's been sitting for an eternity.

"'Bout halfway," John admits.

Dean squares his jaw as he feels the cool needle rest against his skin again.

John begins to speak, about to ask another question about where his boy hurts, when the bathroom door flings open.

Both of the elder Winchester men jump, John accidently sliding the needle across the crook of his son's arm. A thin line of blood appears but no one notices, both too concentrated on Sam to say a word.

Sam swipes his arm across his eyes, not expecting the bright light that he was greeted with. He yawns, forcing his eyes to adjust to the light and the scene ahead of him. His child's eyes, nearly hidden behind a mop of hair, widen as he looks to his brother.

"Dean! Are you okay? When did you get hurt? Dad! He's still bleeding!"

"Breathe, Sammy," Dean instructs, aware that his little brother is about to go into overdrive.

"You're _hurt_," Sam repeats, empathy welling on the child's face.

"I'll be okay," Dean assures him, even though his body is throbbing and he's still bleeding in several spots. It doesn't matter how injured he gets, he'll always end up being okay. Soldiers never give in. Soldiers never show weakness. Soldiers carry on, no matter what.

"You're hurt," Sam echoes again.

"Go back to bed," John orders. "I need to fix up your brother."

Sam stares at Dean, unable to leave his big brother.

"Go," Dean repeats. "I'll be right there. I swear."

"Swear?" Sam echoes, turning the word into a question.

"As soon as Dad gets done with patching me up," Dean nods. "And you know how good he is at that."

Sam, though still clearly worried over his brother, finally obeys his family members and wanders back to his hotel bed. Dean swings the door shut and closes his eyes again, waiting for his father to finish to job.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" John asks, focusing on a particularly tricky wound to bandage.

"Yes," Dean admits.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

John finally leans away from his son's bloody torso. He's patched every wound as best as he could. Now, he just needs to wait for time to take its course and heal the boy. "I'm going to need to check for signs of concussion."

Dean patiently sits as his father goes through the motions.

"I'm still worried," John admits though there's no evidence to say that Dean for sure has a head injury. "I'm going to set the alarm clock to wake you in an hour. When it does, I want you to set it for the next hour until it's time to get up for school, got it?"

Dean nods. "Yes, Dad."

"Now go get some sleep." John orders.

Dean slips from the bathroom counter and to the bed he shares with Sammy. He crawls in next to his brother, fully expecting the child to be sleeping. Yet, he's not. As soon as Dean slips between the covers, the much smaller boy has twined his ever growing limbs around his brother.

"Are you really okay, Dean?" Sam implores.

"Yes," Dean manages, rearranging Sam so that he's not clinging to any sore areas.

"I don't like when you get hurt."

"It's better than you getting hurt." Dean runs his hand through Sam's hair, knowing the action soothes him and, hopefully, it'll make him sleep.

"I don't like it," Sam insists. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore."

Dean knows that he's going to get hurt again. In fact, he's probably going to get hurt a lot worse than this in the future.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

Sam touches one of the bandages on Dean's arm very gently, knowing that anything rough will hurt.

"I want to protect you."

"I'm the big brother. I protect you. And if I have to get hurt to make sure you don't, then I'm okay with that."

Sam is silent for a beat. "I'm really glad you love me, Dean."

Dean cracks a smile. "I'm really glad _you_ love _me_."

Sam doesn't respond. His breathing evens out and soon he's flung out across the mattress, snoring occasionally. Dean pulls a pillow over his head, pressing it against his face. He screams silently against the fabric, a vice for his frustrations over his soldier life.

Sometimes he wonders if it's really worth it.

_Don't give a fuck if I cut my arms bleeding_

_Do you even care if I die bleeding?_

Dean is so angry he feels as though he's going to burst. He doesn't want Sam to see how upset he is, though. He knows that Sam's upset enough right now without Dean adding to his emotions.

"Okay," Dean faces his little brother. "Why don't you call for food and then we'll walk down to that ice-cream place we saw? Would that make you feel better?"

Sam stares back with red-rimmed eyes. "Why wasn't Dad there?" He asks Dean because his brother always has the answers. "I won an award. Isn't that important to him?"

Yes, it was. His children were important to John Winchester. But, for some unfathomable reason that neither of them could explain, the job came first. It was a harsh truth that both of them had to live with every day as they trained under their father's watchful eye or as they looked for him but he wasn't there – absent from yet another important event.

"Something probably came up," Dean says through tight-lips. "I was there, though. And I talked to your teacher. We're both so proud of you, Sammy."

Sam looks down to the floor. He huffs and meets Dean's eyes again, coming to some sort of understanding. "Chinese food?"

"Sure."

"And double scoop."

"Whatever you want. You won the award, you deserve it."

Sam grins. "You're really proud of me?"

"I'd be proud of you no matter what. But I guess right now I'm extra proud of you."

Sam's grin widens and he bounces over to the hotel phone to call in their order.

Dean slips into the bathroom. He wants to punch a hole in the damn wall. Sam had been talking about this award and the upcoming ceremony for over a week, soliciting daily promises from John and Dean that _no_, they wouldn't leave before the ceremony happened and _yes_, both would be in attendance – no plans to hang out with friends, no hunting, no plans to leave; Sam wanted their complete attention for one night.

John couldn't even keep one lousy promise. Dean wouldn't have cared if his father hadn't kept a promise to _him_ but John had promised _Sam_ who was far more important in Dean's eyes. He had sat in that crowd, clapping and cheering for his little brother as he stumbled across the school stage, and had felt an agonizing pull as he realized the child was looking for the father who wasn't there; who couldn't reserve one night for his sons and not for the job.

Dean knows he needs to calm down and get it together, for Sam. And he needs to do it fast. There's only one thing that can calm him down. Dean falls to his knees, digging under the sink. He pulls out the small plastic bag that he's hidden up in the piping – somewhere that not even his vigilant father will find it. He leans back against the locked door, unraveling the plastic bag and opening it.

His fingers search out one of the small pieces of metal in the bottom of the bag and he pulls it out. He stares down at the razor in his palm before shrugging his bracelets off his wrist and pressing the blade to the sensitive skin. He gasps in relief as he feels the pain – slow and gentle, covering his mind and drowning everything out. He makes several more lines, deep and precise across his wrist, careful not to exceed the space his bracelet would cover.

He makes lines until he's sure Sam's wondering why on earth he's taking so much time in the bathroom.

He makes lines until he can't remember why he's angry at his father – a father who wouldn't care about his son if he walked in the bathroom right now, would only care that his perfectly trained soldier is weak after all.

He makes lines because he _knows_ his father doesn't care but hopes that, one day, his dad might think to look a little further, see exactly what this hard life is doing to the son who pretends to love it, but really loves his father more.

And he's careful not to take his lines just a little too far because he knows that if he died like this – slumped in the bathroom with metal buried in his wrist – it would absolutely kill his little brother.

Under no circumstances would Dean willingly leave Sam.

_Would it be wrong, would it be right?_

_If I took my life tonight,_

_Chances are that I might_

Dean wearily packs his bags, wondering (as he always did when he packed up another hotel room, rental house, or apartment) just how they managed to acquire so much stuff when his family was essentially nomadic and how it managed to scatter to every corner of the dwelling. He finally zips the last suitcase closed and decides to do another once over of the room, remembering to slip into the bathroom and tuck his plastic bag into the pocket of his jeans where no one else could accidentally find it.

He's just finished making sure they're leaving nothing in the room when Sam returns – stomping red faced to one of the beds and falling face first on it. He hears a growl of frustration from his father outside the door. He swallows, knowing that Sam and Dad are fighting _again_ – even though Sam is only ten, he's already rebelling against their father's way of life – and Dean hates it every time they do. Not only does he hate feeling like he has to choose a side (the father he's dedicated his life to pleasing or the little brother that was the light of his life?) but he also hates the fact that Sammy's so dedicated to appearing _normal_. It's something that Dean has coveted since the fire that took their mother, but something he's accepted he can never have; something he can never be. He knows that Sam hasn't come to the same acceptance.

Dean drags the suitcases to the door, pushing them out to John. His father stares at him.

"I thought you could put them in the car while I calm Sam down," Dean breathes.

"Good idea," John admits, beginning to heft the bags.

Dean disappears back into the hotel room, sitting next to his brother and rubbing his back.

"Sammy," he croons, "talk to me."

"It's not fair! I don't want a new school or a new town or a new place to live. I don't want to be the new kid _again_. Why can't we just stop moving around? Or why don't I ever get a say?"

Dean sighs. "I know how hard it is. I feel that too."

"You never say anything," Sam accuses, peeking up at him. "Dad might listen to you."

Dean scoffs. "Dad never listens to anyone but himself."

"Why doesn't he let _us_ just stay somewhere?" Sam suggests. "Just you and me in the same place forever. Imagine! I mean, it's just you and me a lot of the time anyway and we could do it, Dean. I know we could! Do you think he would let us?"

Dean shakes his head. "We belong with Dad. We're only ten and fourteen. We wouldn't be allowed to live alone."

"But we'd be together. And he's never home anyway."

Dean wishes he could seize his life in his hands. He wishes he had the courage to tell his father "I'm not sure if I want to do this hunting thing anymore and I know it's not the right life for Sam" but he can't. His life belonged with his father and whatever his father asked of him. Whether it was right of his father to ask him of certain things was certainly up for debate but regardless, he was John's boy, John's soldier, and he did what he was asked. His life was not his own. His life was dictated by his father.

"Dean!" Sam reaches out, snatching his brother's arm, looking up at him with large puppy eyes. "Please. I don't want to do this anymore."

Dean looks down to his little brother, the one person he will always love, and he realizes something. No, his life isn't his own. But, his life doesn't belong to his father either. Though his father has shaped every aspect of who he is – has turned this mama's boy into a hardened fighter – and tells him what to do and where to go, he doesn't belong to his father. No one owns him, no one controls him like Sam's pleading eyes, dependent on his older brother.

Dean wouldn't fight for his own right to life – his own escape from the demands of a hunter – but he might just fight for Sam.

_Mutilation out of sight_

_and I'm contemplating suicide_

Dean left Sam sitting on the bed and made his way out to where his father was leaning against the Impala. His heart was hammering in his chest. He couldn't breathe. Never before had he even so much as suggested that he didn't like hunting. He was his father's oldest. He had to do whatever his father said. It was the truth that Dean had grown up with since his mother had died. _If I do exactly what he says, if I do exactly what he does, then he'll have no choice but to love me_.

"Where's Sam?" Were the first words out of John's mouth when he saw Dean approaching. He was itching to get on the road, to get on the hunt again.

"In the hotel room." Dean leans against the hood of the Impala, aware of just how very small he is standing next to John.

"Why's he still in there?"

Dean swallows, knowing that in this next moment, he could lose all he's worked for. He could lose his father's dependence, his father's trust, his father's approval, even his father's love. Sam's pleading face swam in front of his eyes. Somehow, Sam being happy meant more than a father's love to Dean, no matter how much of his life had been dedicated to that father. He knows, with certainty, that he is about to fall from grace in his father's eyes and, no matter what happens between them in the future, nothing could bring him back to where he was before.

"He wanted me to talk to you about something." Dean keeps his eyes trained on the black asphalt, knowing this conversation is easier to have with the ground than his father's eyes.

"What?"

"He doesn't want the hunter life anymore, Dad. And I've been wondering too if it's the best thing for any of us. Sam, and me too I guess, we were hoping we could pick a spot and settle down." Dean keeps going. Now that he's started, nothing can make him stop. His thoughts come spilling out of him, lightning fast. "It's been so hard on us, the moving around the switching schools. I know Sam is always talking about it, and I've never said a thing, but I've _wanted_ to. I hate slipping into town and then slipping back out, sometimes not even giving people my real name. I feel like you're taking away pieces of me when you say 'your name is Jimmy Mercury' or something.

"I am Dean Winchester. That's the name Mom gave me. And I know that if she were still here, none of this would be happening. You can't tell me this is what she'd want for us Dad."

Dean knows that bringing up his mother is crossing the line in his father's eyes. John never speaks of her except on three occasions: her birthday, their anniversary, and the day of her death.

"Dean Winchester," John roars, "I don't want to hear that kind of talk again. You are my boys. You do what I say. And don't talk about what your mother would have wanted. She isn't here now. It's just me."

"But, Dad," Dean protests, knowing that it's useless. He's already lost. "We want to be normal."

"Normal is relative," John growls. He snatches Dean's arm and drags him around to the side of the Impala. "Get in. I'm going to get your brother."

John throws the door open, shoving his eldest in the car. Dean collapses in the passenger seat, rubbing his temple where it had collided with the dashboard. He rights himself up in the seat, bringing his knees to his chest forcing himself to breathe. His father has _never_handled him like that before. Though John can be gruff and demanding, he's never been physical with them – a few lectures here and there when deserved, but John has never laid a hand on either him or Sam.

Dean drops his head. He hadn't had much hope that John would agree to leave his sons in one place, or become stationary himself, but he hadn't expected John to react so negatively. Dean closes his eyes, hand absently going to his wrist and stroking his self-inflicted scars.

He knows he's going to have to rededicate himself to his father – become even more intense in his efforts to please. It's the only way he knows to protect Sammy, keep him as far away from the life as a hunter he possibly can under the circumstances. If he's Dad's little solider – even better than before – then Dad would rely on him and him alone and if Sam ever wanted to get out of the life, though Dean knows it'll kill him if his little brother ever leaves, then Dad shouldn't fight.

Because Dad will have Dean, the better fighter, the more dedicated hunter, and Sam will be free.

_'Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

Dean tries to open his eyes but he can't. Everything about him feels achy and heavy; all of him hurts. He just wants to make it go away. He wants to disappear from the pain. One thought breaks through the deep haze that is his mind: Sam is in danger.

He begins to struggle, trying to fight against the weight of his limbs.

"Shh," a female voice begins to soothe. "You're all right. Just lay back down. You're fine."

And Dean obeys.

Because she sounds like Mom.

**I don't own anything recognizable. The song is **_**Last Resort**_** by **_**Papa Roach**_**. There will be 3 chapters. Thanks to my beta: **_**ImagineYourself64.**_

**~TLL~**


	2. Chapter 2

_Losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

"Dean! _Dean!_ Dean…?" A young voice; a thin voice – Dean can't place the speaker but he knows he should be able to. But his mind his is so damn foggy. He just wants to go back to sleep, back to the black dreamless place of rest.

"Shh, quiet now. Dean needs to sleep." The unknown woman's voice; the voice that sounds like Mom.

"Is he all right?" Dean knows that gruff voice; the voice of his father.

"Yes," the woman says.

"Well then he should be awake," John retorts.

Dean thinks he should try and struggle now, try and wake back up, but he doesn't want to. He likes being able to just lie down and relax instead of having to fight all of the time, be aware all of the time. He likes lying down and knowing that he's being taken care of instead of anticipating every moment as one of danger.

"He needs time to recover," the woman chastises, "Especially after such a vicious attack. I've never heard of a bear attacking campers, but it's the only thing congruent with his injuries."

"An unfortunate twist of fate," John agrees.

Dean feels a slight pressure on the left side of the mattress, his body dipping toward it. He lets himself slide a little. He feels a hand – smaller than his – coming to wrap around his own.

"Dean," Sammy whispers, low underneath the conversation of his father and the woman, "I really want you to wake up now. Please?"

Dean can hear the tears in Sam's voice, threatening to spill over. Maybe it is time to open his eyes, to return to the world, but even though he knows what's going on, he doesn't know if he can fully find his way back. His head is aching, his body is aching, and he doesn't know how to regain control over his own limbs.

"Dean," Sam pushes, more insistent now than he was before, "please, show me you're fine. I mean, I _know_ you're fine. I just … I want to be sure, okay?"

Dean doesn't even think about it. Sammy wants him awake and all right. He can do that. He can do that for his little brother. His eyes begin to flutter. At first he only sees darkness and he begins to worry – what exactly happened to him? Why can't he see? But then his vision begins to clear. The light pierces his eyes and it makes him tear up.

"Dean!" Sam yelps, making his brother wince. "Can you hear me?"

"S-s-sh," Dean manages, not even able to force out an appropriate 'shut up' for his pesky sibling.

"Dean," Sam repeats his brother's name.

Dean tries to summon a smile for his relieved brother, but Sam is being pushed out of the way. He's replaced but a tall, brunette woman who leans over Dean, mouth kind but face all business.

"Hello, Dean. I'm Dr. Metlow. How do you feel?" She asks. "Any aches, pains?"

"Everything," Dean forces out, his mouth completely dry.

"Uh-huh." She says. "Well, you don't appear to have lost any brain functions. Your wounds look as though they are healing nicely. I was worried when you came in unconscious," she admits. "I'm going to schedule a few tests, to be run later this afternoon, just to make sure everything is in working order."

She finishes her assessment of Dean's body, smoothing the blankets back over his bandaged chest.

"Mr. Dolfrey," she says, turning to face John. "May I speak to you outside?"

The two adults exit the room, and Sam bounces back to his brother's side.

"How do you feel?" He asks the doctor's earlier question.

Dean is quick to shush him. He wants to hear what the doctor is saying to Dad. He's fourteen and Sam is ten – there are probably some things the doctor didn't want said in front of them.

He can hear her now, "Mr. Dolfrey, I've noticed several injuries on Dean."

Dean's heart seizes up. His wrist; his dirty secret. He looks down at his arm but, even though his clothing has been stripped away, his bracelets have remained securely in place. He breathes a sigh of relief, but only for a moment – what else could the doctor being talking about if she isn't referencing his self-inflicted injuries?

"He _was_ attacked," John points out.

"Previous injuries." The doctor hesitates, "ones that imply a lifetime of abuse."

"Abuse!" John roars. "Never, in my life have I –"

"Regardless," Dr. Metlow says calmly, "I have to report it."

Sam looks down at Dean fearfully. "Are they going to take us away?"

"No," Dean assures him. "Don't worry, Sammy."

And because Dean says it, Sam doesn't worry.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Dean distracts his brother. "I don't remember getting hurt."

"Oh," Sam sniffs, face going dark. "Uh, we were sleeping in the backseat and Dad got a call from someone sayin' that there was a job nearby. An' we went. Dad parked and gave us both guns and even though I practiced with them before I've never been hunting with him before, not like you have and I was so _scared_. We stayed close to Dad but the thing came from behind us instead of in front of us and it was gonna grab me but you jumped in the way and it got you instead. I'm so sorry, Dean!"

Dean tries not to wince as Sam throws his body down, clinging to his older brother and begging for forgiveness.

"No, buddy, it's all right. Are you okay?"

Sam looks up at him with huge eyes. "Yes. I'm okay."

"Good," Dean lets out a breath and holds his brother closer.

They're only able to lie there together for a moment before John bursts back in the room.

"Dean, get dressed. We've got to go." He throws a pile of clothes onto the bottom of the hospital bed.

"The doctor called child protective services," Dean guesses.

"Yes. We've got to get out of here." John turns his back as Dean slowly begins to crawl for his clothes, trying to cater to his harsh injuries.

"Dean belongs in a hospital," Sam protests. He knows they have to go to keep their family together but he can't stand the thought of dragging an injured Dean around.

Dean answers before his father does. "I belong with you. And nothing is going to keep me from that."

"I have the meds Dean needs," John adds. "We can take care of him just as well as they can."

Sam nods. He watches Dean cringe as he leans down to pull on jeans. He can't take his eyes off his brother's vulnerability – it is a rare thing to see from Dean, who is always strong for Sam. Dean spreads out the t-shirt John has tugged into the hospital, but comes to a realization: he can't lift his arms up high enough to pull the shirt on.

Sam quickly steps in, unable to take the despair on Dean's face. He picks up the hoodie John has brought – a zip-up. "Here," he murmurs as he pulls the garment up over Dean's arms to his shoulders.

Dean doesn't reply. He just takes Sammy's hand in his own and they follow their father to the Impala.

_I never realized I was spread too thin_

Dean is laid up for the next three weeks. All this means is that he stays in the hotel room with Sam while his father goes on a hunting trip on his own.

"Why are you studying?" Dean growls at his little brother. His wounds itch and he's tired of being cooped up. "It's July."

"I like to learn, Dean." Sam puts the book down on the tiny table and comes to sit next to his brother, staring at him expectantly.

"What?" Deans asks, returning his gaze.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Dean smirks. It's amazing how much younger than ten Sam can sound, especially considering the life they've had. "Don't you have enough stories in your books over there?" Dean inclines his head toward the stack. "'Sides, I'm not story teller."

"Tell me a story about _me_," Sam insists, "when I was little."

"Goodness you like hearing about yourself," Dean teases. "I can't count the number of times you've asked."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"What story would you like to hear?" Dean gives in, knowing that Sam will probably pick the time he drank all of Dad's holy water and then replaced it with grape juice because he felt so bad.

"Uhm," Sam thinks. "A new one!"

"A new one!" Dean blanches. He's told every funny story from Sam's childhood. He looks at the boy; maybe he doesn't want a funny story. "Well, have I ever told you about your first steps?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Okay, well, coincidentally, it was also the day of your first word. It was just you and me in the room. Dad wasn't on a hunt or anything – he was just going to the store and you were sleeping when he went to leave. He didn't want to wake you and he was only going to be gone for a few minutes.

"I was sitting on the floor at the end of the bed – you were sleeping and I didn't want to disturb you. So, anyway, I was sitting there watching TV when I heard this thud. I look over and you've slid down the side of the bed, clinging to the blankets to keep yourself standing. No big deal, you did this all the time – slid off the bed and then crawled around getting into stuff and keeping me busy. So I say 'come here, Sammy', hoping you'll crawl over and watch cartoons and I won't have to chase you around.

"You stare at me for a second, let go of the blanket and start wobbling toward me. I was so scared you were going to fall on your face, even though you were only two steps away. But you made it to me without breaking your face. You fell into my lap, giggled at me and then you pulled my hair and said 'Dean'."

As he spoke, Dean was taken back to that day. Though he's been in thousands of dingy motel rooms since, he can remember that dingy motel room perfectly. He can remember his own small voice when his father returned, proudly announcing what his little brother could do now – the same little brother who was sucking his thumb and chanting Dean's name.

He can remember the utter feeling of innocence that took over the entire image now.

He wonders when it ended. He wonders when he stopped being the five-year-old boy in the hotel room, bursting with pride and awe at something as simple as walking and started being the fourteen-year-old boy who gazed at everything with weary and cynical eyes.

He wishes he could go back to that boy, but he knows he can't. Everything about that moment is gone.

And then he looks down at Sam, and thinks that not everything is gone. He is still filled with pride and wonder when it comes to Sam – the only thing that keeps Dean from throwing himself off the deep end, the only thing that keeps his father from finding him slumped over in the bathroom, covered in blood, with metal buried in his wounded wrist.

_'Til it was too late and I was empty within_

_Hungry, feeding on chaos and living in sin_

"Can I talk to you?" Sam asks.

"I've got to get ready for the hunt," Dean says, checking the time. "Dad will be here in fifteen to get me."

"That means you have fifteen minutes to talk," Sam points out.

"Okay, talk." Dean agrees.

"Why have you been so …" Sam searches for an appropriate word, "excited for hunting lately?"

"I'm going to need a little more than that," Dean prompts.

"Well, you were always more involved with hunting than I was; you liked it more. I know that. But lately, you just seem to want to be out there more." Sam glances down. "Like Dad; it seems like that's all you want to do."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to tell Sam of the promise Dean made to himself – the one to be the better hunter so that Dad would, hopefully, be more willing to let Sam _out_. He also doesn't want to tell Sam that he's throwing himself into hunting more because it lets him siphon his emotions out in a more productive way than curling in the bathroom and making himself bleed. _That_ is one secret he will take to his damn grave.

"I enjoy hunting," Dean settles for the easiest answer. He doesn't add that hunting gives him purpose. He's helping people, ridding the world of evil, and that's more than most other people are doing. And because he doesn't say this, he also doesn't say how dirty the killing makes him feeling sometimes (creature or not, life is life) but he's trying to become hard to it; he's trying not to care.

"I thought you were more like me. I thought you wanted something else for yourself."

"Sammy," Dean breathes sadly, knowing that he's about to speak more truth now than he ever has in his life, "there's more out there for you. I'll never be able to have anything else."

He gives his brother a hug and leaves the room – his fifteen minutes are up.

_Downward spiral, where do I begin?_

_It all started when I lost my mother_

It's a late night in the Impala. John is driving, quietly singing along to the radio, and Sam is asleep, his head rolling around in Dean's lap. Dean keeps a hand on his brother's head, keeping him steady. Dean knows he should drift off (he _hate_s being tired during the day) but he can't. He leans his head against the back window of the Impala, staring up at the rush of night sky.

He lets his mind drift to the should-have-been life. He hardly ever lets himself think about what his life might have been if his mother hadn't died; if the supernatural hadn't come in and destroyed his father. Yet, sometimes, this overwhelming feeling of sorrow and nostalgia takes over, and he lets himself think about where he would be, right now, if he'd been allowed to be a fourteen-year-old boy instead of a fourteen-year-old soldier.

He would certainly be in bed, he thinks. It's nearly three a.m. and his mother would probably have a priority on bedtimes. Unless he was at a friend's house … if he'd been allowed to be a normal boy, he would almost certainly have friends, more than just his little brother. Though he loves Sammy, sometimes it gets tiring not having anyone his own age that he can truly connect to.

He wonders if his mother would still tuck him in. He wonders if his father would have taught him about cars. He wonders if he and Sam would have the same bond, were Sam raised by a mother and a father instead of a half-absent father and an older brother.

Dean brushes his fingers through Sam's hair.

If Dean were allowed to be a normal boy, if he hadn't lost his mother, then he could have had it all. He could have had all of the things he had toyed with only in dreams – friends, university, career, _love_ – rather than the reality he knew he would never escape – roads, salt rounds, guns, ghosts.

_No love for myself and no love for another_

_Searching to find a love upon a higher level_

When Sam had been born and brought home, Dean had rejected the tiny bundle. Mary had done all she could – telling him the joys of a little brother, telling him how much Sam already loved him – but Dean wasn't having any of it. John had tried to tell Dean all that the baby could do someday – the games they could play and all Dean could teach Sam – but Dean didn't want to talk about someday. Dean talked about _now_.

By the time Mary died, Dean had tolerated the baby only because of a burning curiosity to understand the little human who was so different from himself. The night before Mary had died Dean could remember sneaking into Sam's room, John and Mary watching TV downstairs believing both of their boys were sleeping peacefully. He had crawled up the side of Sam's crib, watching the infant sleep. He had stayed there, not really thinking or doing anything, just watching, until he heard John and Mary switch the TV off and start coming upstairs to bed.

And then the fire.

Dean can remember the light weight of six-month-old Sam in his weak arms, running for their lives. He can remember that as the first night, cradling Sam close as if he would lose everything if he dared let go, and realizing for the very first time that he loved this baby.

And now Sam is the only thing Dean loves.

Dean is strutting around a small town library while he's pondering his past, waiting for Sam to finish copying notes out of a book that Dean is sure weighs more than his brother does. Dean picks up a book – a self-help book with the slogan _'Love Yourself!'_. He wants to scoff at the corniness of the line, if only to distract himself from how deeply the words resonate because they are the opposite of the truth.

Dean doesn't like to think about himself. He doesn't like to consider who he is to other people; his self-worth; his self-image. This is mostly because he knows he doesn't have any, and it makes him feel empty inside; empty enough to slice his wrists in order to feel _something_. He doesn't look in the mirror and see _Dean_, a savior, a suave smile, a confident young man – he doesn't see anything that a boy should see in himself. Instead, he only sees a useless, weak echo of what his father thinks he should be.

"Dean," Sam whispers, tugging on the elbow of his jacket, "I'm ready to go."

Dean doesn't need to love himself. Sam loves him. And as long Sam is here, Dean will have all that he needs.

_Finding nothing but questions and devils_

Sam is whimpering in his sleep.

Dean's eyes pop open at the first noise his little brother makes – and it's not just because Sam's mouth is right next to his ear. Dean tenses, waiting to see if the dream will escalate into a nightmare. He hopes it doesn't but knows that it likely will. Sam always has horrible nightmares – ten years of being in the hunting business and Sam's had nightmares though every one of those years.

Sure enough, Sam's whimpers escalate until it sounds as though he may scream. Dean is quick to nudge Sam awake – John is sleeping in the other bed and he doesn't want to disturb their father. When Sam is having a nightmare, he only wants his brother; he reacts negatively to anyone else intruding during the time period.

"Sammy," Dean croons very softly, "wake up."

Sam's brow furrows, caught somewhere between the awful dream and his brother's voice, prodding him back to consciousness.

"C'mon now, open your eyes, princess."

The nickname, rolling sarcastically from Dean's lips, was enough to bring Sam's eyes dragging open. He glared sleepily at his older brother, but didn't say anything.

"What was the dream about?" Dean asks, knowing that it always helps Sam to talk about it.

"I saw …" Sam gulps. "It's dumb."

"Sam, tell me."

"You were hurt."

"You've seen me hurt before."

"No, not like this. The devil was in my dream too but it was like he was living inside of you, and he was making you hurt yourself, Dean." Sam's eyes grow wide, visible even in the dark. "Why would you hurt yourself?"

Dean swallows the guilt of his secret rising within him. "It was just a dream."

"I hate seeing you hurt."

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt." Dean's wrist throbs as he speaks, under the bracelet he wears even in sleep.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Dean curls Sam into him, playing with his hair until his little brother falls into a peaceful sleep.

As soon as Dean is sure Sam is out, he slips from the bed, padding into the bathroom. He closes and locks the door before sinking onto the cold tile floor. He reaches up under the sink, into the hiding place that has not yet failed him. He brings out his plastic bag and grabs one of the razors. He shoves his bracelets from his wrists, not even watching them clatter to the floor before he's slicing his wrists, watching his blood ooze from the wounds. He cuts himself until he forgets that he's lied to Sam.

Dean Winchester is not fine.

Dean Winchester is hurt.

**I don't own anything recognizable. The song is **_**Last Resort**_** by **_**Papa Roach.**_** Thanks to my beta: **_**ImagineYourself64.**_

_**~TLL~**_


	3. Chapter 3

_'Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

Dean stares at his wrist. It's mangled and bloody. It makes him sick to look at it but it also fascinates him too. He can't fully explain why he likes hurting himself so much – not when he gets so close to dying in his every day soldier's life. But he can't stop now. It has been going on for almost a year and he's come to treasure what he does to himself.

It's the only time when he doesn't have to think. He's free to close his eyes and feel the pain; feel the release that pain brings. He doesn't have to be worried about Sammy; he doesn't have to feel his father's absence; he doesn't have to feel his disappointment in himself.

It doesn't matter that this is a dirty little secret. It doesn't matter the Dean _knows_ it's wrong and he _knows_ he should get help for it. In a world that is constantly shaped by others – by his father's selfish desires, the whims of supernatural evils, and Sam's needs - in a world that Dean has to share with others (car seats, meals and hotel rooms) and he never gets a second on his own, this is all his.

Dean picks up his bloody razor in his bloody fingertips before lowering it to his destroyed wrist. He knows it should hurt like hell but all it does is make him smile.

_Losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

_Nothing's alright, nothing is fine_

"DEAN!" Sam leaps onto his older brother with all the force of a ten-year-old.

Dean freezes, Sam clinging to him. "What?"

"Talk to me!" Sam demands, sliding off his brother's shoulder and standing in front of the hotel room door barring his way.

"Sam, Dad is waiting for me."

Sam growls. "I don't _care_. I'm your brother and I need your attention!"

"I'll give you all the attention you need when we get back," Dean says quickly, trying to dispel the guilt that was building within him. What the hell is he doing? Sammy needs him and he's talking about going on a damn hunt?

But he's hunting for Sam – he no longer receives any enjoyment out of helping people, out of being at Dad's side. He hunts so that Sam doesn't have to. He hunts so his brother will have a way out when he chooses to take it (Dean knows it's _when_ now, not _if_ but he doesn't know if he will ever be okay with the fact that it means giving up his brother). He just can't explain that to the boy. He's much too young to understand that Dean is planning for a future that's nearly a decade away – Sam lives for the moment and, in this moment, that means he has to plead for his big brother to pay attention to him.

"_Now_," Sam shrieks, voice shrill. "I've tried to talk to you before but you just pushed it to the side and I just … Dean, do you not love me anymore?"

Dean is shell-shocked into silence. Not love his brother? It was unthinkable. The only thing on this Earth that matters to Dean is the ten-year-old in front of him, accusing him of the worst crime that Dean could ever imagine.

"You don't!" Sam mistakes Dean's silence, tears brimming in his eyes. "You _hate_ me, don't you? That's why you're always leaving me alone, going off hunting with Dad. That's why you don't talk to me anymore and you spend all your time alone in the bathroom and you sit in the front seat with Dad instead of in the backseat with me. What did I do? Why do you hate me all of a sudden?"

"Sammy," Dean breathes, taking a step forward, arms outstretched. His throat is clogged and he can feel tears coming.

He's never thought this. He's never thought that Sam could take his actions this way. He thought that everything was fine between him and his little brother. Dean has just been forcing himself into growing up, taking on responsibilities in order to keep his younger brother young and innocent.

"Don't Sammy me!" Sam shouts, going red in the face. "If you hate me than I hate _you_. I wish you weren't my brother and I wish I didn't have to wake up in the morning to your stupid face! Go on your stupid hunt with Dad that you love more than me!"

Dean can pinpoint the exact moment that his heart shattered inside his chest. Yes, Sam had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, allowing them to overwhelm him at times. Never, however, had those emotions been railed toward Dean in a negative way. Sam was usually exploding at their father, at the unfairness of the universe, finding comfort with his big brother. Dean doesn't know how to deal with the fact that Sam _hates_ him. Sure, he's a ten-year-old and kids that age say things they don't mean all the time but Sam isn't other kids. Sam says what he means and he sticks to his word.

And Dean can see the hatred blazing in Sam's eyes – the angry energy pointing straight at Dean.

"I'm not going anywhere with Dad," Dean decides quietly. "I'm going to stay here with you."

"I hate you." Sam roars again. He turns away from the door, jumping into the bed and pulling the blankets up over his chest.

"I love you, Sammy," Dean calls, hearing the hopelessness and desperation in his own voice. Sam _can't_ hate him because if Sam hates him then Dean truly has nothing left.

Sam swears for the first time in his life. "Go fuck yourself, Dean. I fucking hate you. I wish you were out of my life for good."

_I'm running and I'm crying_

_I'm crying_

_I can't go on living this way_

Dean stands, frozen to the spot, for a very long time. He stands there as tears carve rivers into his suddenly aged cheeks. He stands there as the pieces of his broken heart fall out of his body, never to be retrieved. He stands there as Sam's breathing turns from harsh – a product of anger – to soft – a product of sleep.

Sam doesn't love him anymore. Sam: his responsibility, his little brother, the person who counted on him, the person who loved him unconditionally, and the person he loved unconditionally. Since the night of the fire, when Sam was placed in his arms and he had bolted from their house, Dean has never been apart from his brother. A bond was born that night – something much stronger than the ones normal siblings harboured – and Dean had thought it unbreakable.

Yet, he had broken it. In doing what he thought was best for Sammy, he had unintentionally hurt the young boy. Dean couldn't take that thought. He had hurt his little brother. It's his fault Sam lashed out. It's his fault Sam feels such anger. Sam hates Dean because Dean deserves it.

Dean steals to Sam's bedside. He pulls back the covers and looks down upon his brother – peaceful in sleep. Dean feels his heart swell with pride and love. He leans down and kisses the top of Sam's head – he doesn't even stir.

Dean has dedicated his life in doing what's right for Sam. And, if what's right for Sam is disappearing, Dean can do that.

He walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. He locks it. He knows that Sam won't break the lock but Dad will when he comes back from the hunt. He slides to his knees and reaches up under the sink and grasps his plastic bag. He rocks onto his backside, making himself comfortable against the edge of the porcelain tub. He pulls his razors out of the bag, studying each of them. He picks up the sharpest blade – thanks to his father's training, he knows exactly which one that is.

He pulls off his bracelets, surveying the unhealed damage he had done just the night before. He presses the razor down, finally letting himself go to that tempting place of _too far_.

He doesn't stop to think about his decision. He doesn't stop to think about the consequences. He lets the nostalgic agony of the should-have-been life rise in full force. He lets the intoxicating, denied, possibilities of the "normal life" guide his hand. He lets the pain and pressure of the soldier life run thick through his veins.

Still, though, it is not a selfish act of escape. Dean Winchester doesn't do selfish things. He lives for his little brother and whatever desires the young boy has. It's for Sammy that Dean is doing this. Sam wants him gone, and like the dutiful big brother, Dean will give him everything he wants.

A smile lights his face as he thinks of Sam and not the hot rivers of blood (too much blood; the blood of one who is too far gone now) cascading down his wrist.

And that's how his father finds him: a smile on his face, slumped against the bathtub with blood fingers, a piece of metal buried in his wrist.

_Cut my life into pieces_

_This is my last resort, suffocation, no breathing_

_Don't give a fuck if I cut my arms bleeding_

_Do you even care if I die bleeding?_

_Would it be wrong, would it be right?_

_If I took my life tonight, chances are that I might_

_Mutilation out of sight and I'm contemplating suicide_

John Winchester is not, in this moment, a happy fucking camper. His eldest son abandoned him on the hunt, he has a nasty gash on his arm, his youngest is snoring like the devil himself, and the aforementioned eldest son has barricaded himself in the bathroom and John needs to piss. Still, he knows better than to wake Sammy – the child won't go back to sleep after being woken and he gets cranky if he doesn't get enough rest.

He raps once on the bathroom door. "_Dean_," he hisses, "Open up!"

There's no response.

_Teenagers_, John groans to himself with an eye roll. He twists the doorknob, finds it locked and indulges himself to another eye roll.

He quickly unlocks the door and hopes that Dean isn't naked. He wants to spare them both the embarrassment of that encounter, though it would be Dean's fault, not answering John's knock. He pushes open the door and finds it completely dark.

Confusion overtaking him, John grapples at the wall for a moment in search of the light switch. He locates it, steps further in, and shuts the door behind him before he turns on the light. He doesn't want to wake Sam up with the sudden brightness.

John blinks once, eyes adjusting from the dark. Once he does, a swift scope of the bathroom ends with his heart falling to the floor. He's a seasoned hunter; he knows how to react in bad situations; he knows what to do under pressure. Yet, all of the hunting in the world, all of the horrors in the universe, could never prepare him for finding Dean with dead eyes and bleeding wrists.

"Mother of fuck," John squeaks before instinct kicks in.

He does the best he can to push his heart out of the situation. If he lets himself get emotional now, it could spell the end for Dean Instead, he lets his hands take over. His body knows what to do. He reaches for the first aid kit, tying bandages tight around Dean's wrists to stem the blood flow.

He takes off his jacket, forcing the boy's arms through the sleeves. This is an action of his heart – he doesn't want to see the blood and he doesn't want Sam to see it either. Though Sam is still too young to understand the full implications of the word _suicide,_ it always pains the boy to see his brother hurting and John doesn't want to put Sam through anything more than he must.

He hefts Dean in his arms and kicks the bathroom door down, not having the patience to turn the knob.

A combination of the noise and the light sends Sam bolting upright in bed, one hand rubbing at his eyes and the other automatically searching for his brother. Strange noises in the middle of the night means _danger_ and _danger_ means _Dean, protect me_.

"Dad?" Sam rasps, registering the outline of his father who is holding something big in his arms. He hopes it's not the body of something or other.

"Get in the Impala. Not another word."

"Dad," Sam whines, "I don't want to leave. I'm sleeping."

"We're not leaving," John snarls, panic rising within him. Dean doesn't have time for him and Sam to have an argument. "Dean needs to go to the hospital."

Sam goes white as a sheet. He doesn't even pause to put shoes on. He bolts to the front door and opens it for his father. Once John and Dean are outside, Sam slams the door shut, running for the Impala.

John finishes securing Dean in the front seat (his boy who hasn't moved, who hasn't given any indication he knows what's going on around him but is still breathing) before running to his own seat. The engine roars to life and John hits the road, knowing the route the nearest hospital (something he always checked into as they migrated to a new town).

"Is he going to be okay?" Sam's voice sounds, weak and uncertain, from the backseat.

John's throat tightens. "Yes," he forces out.

Because anything else is unthinkable.

_'Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

_Losing my sight, losing my mind_

_Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine_

_Nothing's alright, nothing is fine_

"Dean, I know you're awake. C'mon, buddy."

Dean doesn't want to be awake. He knows he shouldn't be. Sam asked him to go away. He was only trying to do what was right for his brother. That's all he ever tried to do. Unbidden, a tear slips down Dean's cheek, born of emotional pain and not the physical pain of his sliced wrists.

"Hey there, little fighter," John tries to sound comforting. He doesn't know what to do in this situation. He loves his boys but that doesn't mean he's the nurturing type. Mary was the one to kiss away Dean's bruises. John was just the one that carried him to her.

But it's been a decade since Dean has felt Mary's kiss and John doubts that all of the kisses in the world could help Dean if he was feeling enough pain to try to end his life.

Dean's eyes flick open briefly before closing again.

"I saw that," John says softly. "I don't know what you're going through Dean, and I'm not going to pretend I do. But I am here for you, and I do need you to talk to me."

Dean slowly opens his eyes again, looking to his father. He doesn't know what he's expecting – disappointment, maybe, because his son is so weak. It's not what he gets. John doesn't look disappointed in the least. His father is concerned and maybe a little heartbroken. There's a pain in his face, deep and real, something that Dean hasn't seen in full force since the week Mary died.

"Thank God you're okay," John murmurs. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd have lost you too."

Suddenly, Dean is ashamed. He has let his father down, but not in the ways he'd thought he had. John doesn't care if his boys have a weakness – John cares that his boys trust him enough to tell him about it, to take their weakness and let it better them.

John reaches out a hand, brushing it against the side of his son's head. "I was so scared, Dean. Not a lot of things scare me anymore, but the thought of losing you boys terrifies me to death. I love you more than anything and I'm going to be by your side the entire time you're getting better."

Dean nods carefully. But there's still a holdback. He survived, his father isn't angry, and Sam still hates him.

_Sam,_ he realizes with a clench to his heart, _I almost never saw you again_.

Just because Sam is ready to let go of Dean doesn't mean that Dean will ever ready to let go of him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asks.

"No," Dean answers, voice firm. "I don't want to talk about it. I promise you this is the end and I promise I'll come to you if I ever feel this way again, but I never want to mention it again."

The lines at the edges of John's eyes harden. On one hand, he knows that the only way to get through something is to talk about it. He never spoke to anyone about Mary's death and it's still eating him up on the inside, turning into bitter anger. On the other hand, Dean needs to recover in his own way and the boy did promise to come to John if it ever came back up again. If there's one thing that John knows about his boys is that they _always_ keep their promises.

"All right," he agrees grimly. "If I find out you're hurting yourself again, though, I am throwing your ass into therapy."

"To talk about how my dad makes me fight Wendigos?" Dean scoffs and John cracks a smile.

"You may have a point there," John admits and his face softens again. "Damn though, Dean, you've had Sammy and I terrified all night."

Dean's eyes widen at the mention of his little brother. "Where is he? What did you tell him happened to me?"

"A nurse took him down to the cafeteria on her lunch break," John explains. "I didn't tell him anything about what you did though. I said we needed the hospital because you had a bad fever. I didn't know how to explain anything else to him and I figured, if the moment ever came up, that it was your job, not mine."

Dean's thankful for his father's decision. He doesn't want Sam to know about this – not now, not ever. He's dedicated his life to being strong for his little brother and in one single moment, an anger filled moment in which no one was thinking straight, he let it all slip away. He's never going to make that mistake again; not now, not ever.

"Can you go get him?" Dean requests.

He doesn't have long to wait, which he's thankful for because that would lead to thinking and that's something he really doesn't want to do, before his hospital room door creaks open and Sam steps inside, still dressed in his pyjamas. He pauses just inside the doorway, staring at Dean.

"Come here," Dean invites and Sam doesn't need to be told twice.

He hurtles across the room, burying himself in his brother's side. Dean wraps his arm around the kid, whose face is hidden against his ribs. Sam's shaking with tears, and Dean is stunned.

"Hey, Sammy, whatcha crying for?" He asks casually.

"You're in the hospital."

"You've seen me in the hospital before," Dean points out.

"We only come to the hospital for really bad things," Sam voice picks up speed as he rambles, like young children are wont to do, "and I was sleeping and then Dad just burst down the bathroom door. I was so scared; I didn't even realize anything was wrong with you. And if something really had happened to you the last thing I said to you was just so awful and so _wrong_. I don't hate you, Dean, I've never hated you. I'm so glad you're my brother and there's nowhere else I'd want you to be, _never ever_. I love you."

"Sammy, I love you too." Dean feels tears brimming at his cheeks. He had been so _dumb_. Sam loved him and nothing would ever change that, especially not petty anger.

Sam peaks at him. "Why are _you _crying?"

"I'm just really glad you love me."

Sam sat up before throwing his hands around Dean's neck, lips just under his ear. "No, Dean, I'm really glad you love me."

_I'm running and I'm crying_

_I can't go on living this way_

"Damn," Sam sighs as he saunters into a hotel room, throwing his large duffel down on the floor. "It's been a long time since we've been here." He looks to his brother who's salting the windows and doors.

"Yup," Dean agrees swiftly, knowing Sam's waiting for an answer.

"Like what, twenty years?" Sam guesses.

It's been exactly twenty years. Dean's wrist aches with phantom wounds as he remembers what he did in this little town – something Sam is still ignorant to.

"I guess," Dean agrees vaguely.

"I wonder what hunt we were here on," Sam muses, folding his long limbs up on his bed.

"Who knows?" Dean throws himself down on his own bed, wishing Sam would stop reminiscing about their childhood. It just makes Dean think of what he did to himself – something he's been pushing out of his mind for years. "Dad dragged us all over."

Sam frowns. "Yeah, but something about this place is making me think."

"You can think?" Dean takes a shot.

"Did one of us end up in the hospital or something?" Sam guesses, looking at Dean for confirmation. "That's the only thing that would make this thing stick out to me."

"It would've been you or me," Dean points out. "Dad rarely, if ever, went into a hospital for himself."

"This wasn't the place where you suffered the 'bear attack' and we almost got Child Protective Services called on us, was it?"

"Nah," Dean shakes his head. "There's not enough woods around here for that."

Sam continues to ponder this and Dean continues to wish he wouldn't. He knows Sam will eventually come to the answer and thirty-year-old Sam just isn't as gullible as ten-year-old Sam. And thirty-four-year old Dean hates lying to his little brother even more than fourteen-year-old Dean did. He hopes Sam won't get it into his head to start questioning the story that John and Dean fed to him all those years ago.

Sam snaps his fingers. "I've got it. This is the place where you got that bad fever, which seemed weird to me because I can never remember Dad taking us to a hospital for a fever before or after that."

Dean shrugs, hiding his face. "Must've been bad."

"Dean," Sam says questioningly, "What are you hiding?"

Dean stands up and goes to the mini fridge, bending down and grabbing one of the beers that he just stored there. As he reaches, his eyes are drawn to his left wrist which still bears faint scars from the damage he'd caused himself. He straightens up, having forgotten Sam's question, and pops the top off the bottle.

"Dean," Sam repeats, standing up. "It wasn't a fever, was it?"

"What it was, was twenty years ago. You think I've catalogued every injury? If we didn't tell you the truth, it's because we didn't want to scare you."

Under any other circumstances, Sam probably would have bought this. But he notices the way that Dean is overly focused on his beverage, the way he's deflecting, the way he won't look Sam in the eye. He knows Dean has his fair share of secrets – Sam does too – but he's never seen Dean be so dodgy about one.

"C'mon, man, tell me the truth."

"Why do you care about something that happened decades ago?" Dean asks.

"'Cause it's still upsetting you," Sam points out. "I'm your brother, all I'm trying to do is help you."

"Just drop it, Sam. That's the most helpful thing you can do right now."

"Talk to me," Sam pleads.

"I don't want to tell you the truth," Dean admits quietly. "I know you'll see me differently afterward and that's the main reason why I didn't want to tell you the truth when it happened. Another reason was that you were too young to understand."

"Dean, I'm not going to see you differently. We've been through so much together and you think one little fact from twenty years ago is going to change my perception of you forever?"

"Yes," Dean growls. "I haven't been the brother to you that I should have, though I tried. I know I've let you down in a lot of places, in a lot of ways. But this is my biggest failure, Sam. And no matter how big you get, no matter how old you get, I will still be your older brother; I'm still going to want to be strong for you. So please, just let it go."

"That's not the truth! You've been the best brother imaginable. We've been equally shitty to each other so don't even worry about that. And you don't need to always be strong for me. Sometimes, though I can be strong for you – even if it is over something that happened when I was ten. So please, confide in me."

"You want to know the truth?" Dean asks quietly, submissively. Sam wants to know and he could never deny his little brother knowledge, especially not when he's so stubborn over getting it.

"Yes."

"Do you remember what happened that night?"

Sam's brow furrows as he thinks. "We got into an argument. I said I hated you." He remembers with shame.

"Your speech was a lot longer and a lot angrier, but that was the gist, yeah. The night you yelled at me I wasn't … right. I had been unstable for a long time; I had been putting too much pressure on myself."

"What do you mean by unstable?"

Dean's eyes – deep with emotion – came to meet Sam's. He hadn't thought of that night, in such detail, in twenty years, and never has he spoken about it. He had kept his promise to John and had been clean from then on – determined not to relapse and take himself away from Sam.

"I was cutting myself," he reveals, "And that night I tried to commit suicide by slicing my wrist open."

"Dean, I –"

"Don't say anything, Sammy," Dean begs. "I don't think I can handle hearing it."

So Sam stays silent. He moves across the room to his brother's side. He puts his hand around Dean's left arm and tried to flip it over so that he could see the underside. Dean tenses, resisting for a moment, before giving the limb over to his brother. Sam turns it so that he could see Dean's wrists, and the harsh, faded scars that lingered there.

Sam swallows. He's been by Dean's side for years and he's never taken any stock of the scars. Dean's body was littered with scars – both of theirs were – and he's probably brushed it off as inconsequential, just another fight against the supernatural. Shouldn't he have noticed the location? Shouldn't he have stopped and thought it suspicious that there was such a smattering of scars, tight and close together, on the wrist? And what about when he was younger? What was he doing when Dean was hurting himself? What was he thinking when Dean had been healing from his attempt, his left wrist bandaged despite the fact that he only went into the hospital for a fever?

"Can I ask you a question?" Sam wonders.

"One," Dean allows, hoping to move on as quickly as possible. This is it. Sam knows his most vulnerable moments now.

"What stopped you from trying again?" Sam knows pain doesn't disappear. Pain is always within you, festering, waiting to break free again.

"The morning after you were in my hospital room with me, scared to death over losing me. For about a year afterward, you told me you loved me every time I walked out of a room and after that it was every time we woke up and every time we went to bed. I never doubted you again, which was my problem in the first place. I was so consumed with the weight I had put on my shoulders and doing what was best for you, doing what you wanted, I didn't stop to think that maybe you needed me around, even if you had said otherwise in anger. I couldn't try again because I knew you'd need me."

Sam pulls his now shorter brother into a hug, squeezing him as tightly as possible. Even though neither of them are fond of physical contact, Dean is holding him back just as hard.

Sam whispers into his brother's ear, something he hasn't said in years, but something that has never stopped being true. "I'm really glad you love me, Dean."

"No," Dean says with absolute conviction, "Sammy, I'm really glad you love me."

_Can't go on, living this way, nothing's alright_

**Voila! The last chapter!**

**I don't own anything recognizable. The song is **_**Last Resort**_** by **_**Papa Roach**_**. Thanks to my beta: ImagineYourself65.**

**~TLL~**


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